Meditation on a chair

I sit outside on a wrought iron chair. It is deliberately aged in accordance with current trends. I too am somewhat aged, not deliberately but in accordance with the law of entropy which governs all atomic structures. It is neither trendy nor aesthetic. But it is. Being is like this chair in that both are wrought. The adjective wrought means beaten out or shaped by hammering. We are hammered into form, we people and our chairs. Iron is only malleable when heated. Metal hardens when it is cooled directly after being heated. This process is called tempering. We too are tempered. We are quickly passionate when young and the accompanying energy fires us to act. If we are fortunate, like Samuel Beckett, we have fire in our bellies in our late years. But often the heat is lost in the hammering. As cool air nips at my bare feet I feel the fire of ideas inside me and smile. Sitting outside is good still. A flock of cockatoos scratch the blue sky and are gone. This chair, those birds have demanded a response. This is how words are wrought, then written. I will hammer out the form from the fire within. 

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